


Expert

by samchandler1986



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 08:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11144766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: “Ten thousand hours is all it takes to master any skill,” he says to himself. “Over a hundred thousand hours and you’re the best there’s ever been. Now, who told me that?” A minor chord this time, sad and low. “Nope. Can’t remember that either.”





	Expert

“You know,” says Nardole, as he clears away the tea, “I think you’ve got quite good at that.”

The Doctor rolls his eyes and plays another riff, heavy on the wah-pedal. Fingers move up and down the frets. Exit music for a cyborg.

“Ten thousand hours is all it takes to master any skill,” he says to himself. “Over a hundred thousand hours and you’re the best there’s ever been. Now, who told me that?” A minor chord this time, sad and low. “Nope. Can’t remember that either.”

That’s okay though, he likes to tell himself. He can remember lots of other things. He can remember that tomorrow’s lecture is supposed to be on Platonic philosophy but is _actually_ going to be about punk rock. He can remember the smile in River’s eyes, as she kissed him goodbye on Darillium. He can remember the smell of apple grass, and how the dying light picked out in silver the leaves of old trees…

Yes, he can remember lots of things. His vow to stay and guard the vault, all the things attendant on that. How to stay in one place, on the slow path day after day. How to keep sane, ignore the tug at his hearts as the Universe slowly unspools around him. It grows, lives, dies; all without him to bear witness and that’s okay because he has his mission. His duty. _The man who stayed for Christmas_ —

 _No._ His fingers still on the strings, eyes squeezing shut. _No. Not those ones._ Not the memories with the holes—

He can’t remember what she looked like. Or how she talked, or how she laughed. But he knows somewhere in the words that she took when she left is the key: how to be the Doctor. If he tries very hard and follows that advice, he’s not some old Time Lord that ran away. He’s not longest serving faculty member at St Lukes, nor a mysterious super hero. Not a husband, not a grandfather, not a teacher. He’s the promise he made to himself, a long time ago-

“Are you okay?” asks Nardole, returning with a stack of papers. “You’ve gone a bit pale.”

“I’m fine,” he says, the old lie.

“You don’t look it.”

“I’m fine,” he says, more convincingly this time, with a shark’s smile to reassure. “Just hungry, actually. I think I might sample the canteen. Chip day, after all.”

Nardole makes a face. “If you insist.” 


End file.
